Stranger Than
by Analise010
Summary: This is a modern AU fic that I wrote for LiveJournal based on the movie Stranger Than Fiction. It's a story about Arthur, who finds out that he's a character in a book by Morgana LeFray, which wouldn't be so bad if she weren't trying to kill him.
1. Part I

Stranger Than…?

_This is a story about a man named Arthur Pendragon and his wristwatch. Arthur Pendragon was a businessman who specialized in infinite numbers, endless calculations, and somehow, remarkably few words. As his father, Uther Pendragon, had said from birth, this was the Pendragon way, consistency and fairness, almost to the point of monotony. His wristwatch did not approve of the Pendragon way, but it kept silent._

_Every weekday since primary school, Arthur would brush his thirty-two teeth, seventy-six times: thirty-eight times back and forth and thirty-eight times up and down. Every weekday since primary school, whether for a uniform or an Armani suit, Arthur would tie his tie in a single Windsor knot, instead of a double, saving him up to 43 seconds. His wristwatch thought that the single knot made Arthur's neck look fat, but when it came to Arthur Pendragon, few people concentrated on his neckline before moving the rest of the way down his body._

_Every weekday since primary school, Arthur would run at a rate of nearly fifty-seven steps per six blocks, barely catching the 7:17 bus to work. Arthur's wristwatch thought that with the amount of money the Pendragon family had amassed over the centuries, Arthur didn't need to catch the bus, but Uther knew that if his son wanted to inherit the company one day, he would need to know the common man. And what better way to get in touch with poor people than to ride the bus?_

_And every weekday since primary school, whether in the study at Pendragon Manor or on his own at the office, Arthur would review at least seven, but no more than nine business files for Pendragon Industries. When he became an official employee he would delegate tasks, answer questions, and give orders in a professional, succinct manner. He would take exactly forty-five minutes to eat lunch and allow five minutes to get a strong cup of tea to keep him going for the rest of the day. Beyond that, Arthur mainly lived a life of solitude. He would walk home alone. He would eat alone. And at precisely 11:43 every night, Arthur would sleep alone, placing his wristwatch on the nightstand beside him. That was, of course, before Wednesday night. On this particular Wednesday, Arthur's wristwatch changed everything._

_Somewhere across town, a father presented his twelve year-old son, Max, with a brand new bicycle; an unemployed woman in her thirties named Sandra circled two ads in the classified section. Arthur Pendragon knew nothing of it._

_If someone had asked Arthur, he would have said that this particular Wednesday was exactly like all of the Wednesdays prior. And he began it the same way he –_

Arthur looked up at his ceiling and then around his bathroom. He stared at the extra large sink vanity, but saw nothing to indicate that anyone else was in the room. He checked on all sides of the silver Kohler sink, but still nothing. Arthur had definitely heard That Voice again.

"Hello?" he asked. Arthur kept on brushing after receiving no response, wondering if She (That Voice belonged to a woman, he was sure of it.) started talking again.

_And he began it the same way he always did. When other's minds would –_

Arthur glared at his toothbrush, but listened intently for any noise it could have made. Once again disappointed, he went back to brushing his teeth. His father would not tolerate lateness anymore than he would morning breath.

_When other's minds would fantasize about their upcoming day or even try to grip onto the final moments of their dreams, Arthur just counted brushstrokes._

"All right, that's enough! Who just said, 'Arthur just counted brushstrokes?' And how do you even know I'm counting brushstrokes?" Arthur said angrily. He looked around the room, wondering if that new intern Gwaine had stolen into his apartment and planted some kind of weird talking device to drive Arthur mad. He could even have conned his assistant Leon into it, with some awful lie about wanting to learn more about the business. In any case, he needed to find out how to get Her out of his head or at least understand what she was. For now he gave up and went to get dressed for work.

_It was remarkable how the simple, modest elements to Arthur's life, so often taken for granted would become the catalyst for an entirely new life. Arthur ran for the bus, his designer shoes completely silent against the asphalt._

Arthur stopped momentarily and looked down at his shoes. They really made no sound against the pavement as he walked. God, he really needed to find a way to get That Voice out of his before people started began to notice something off about him. He looked up to see the bus at the corner, getting ready to leave him.

_And though today would be an extraordinary day, a day that Arthur would remember for the rest of his life, Arthur just thought it was just a Wednesday._

Arthur banged on the door of the bus as it drove off without him. He gave in and turned to the elderly woman beside him for confirmation.

"Excuse me," he said. "Did you hear that? Did you hear, "Arthur thought it was just a Wednesday?'"

She moved slowly to look at him and Arthur saw that she had too many problems to care about whether or not a voice had said that it was Wednesday. She wore extremely plain clothes, with a bag in her should that even he could tell was a complete knock-off designer brand. Arthur could also tell that she had not noticed his impatience at all when she hastily said, "Yes, sir, it is Wednesday."

"No, I mean, did you hear, "Arthur thought it was just a Wednesday?'" he tried.

"Who's Arthur?" she said, completely relaxed. This woman clearly did not care about getting to her destination by a certain time nor potentially psychotic businessmen.

"Me, that's me, I'm Arthur," he said exasperated.

"Yes, you are right. It is Wednesday. Good boy," she replied, patting him gently on the shoulder and possibly staining his suit. He looked at this watch in despair, wondering why it had chosen to stop working now.

"Could you at least tell me what time it is, ma'am?"

"It is 7:20 in the morning, boy. The bus left early today."

_As Arthur adjusted the time on his watch, little did he know, that this seemingly innocuous act would lead to his imminent death._  
>Arthur had never worried that much about That Voice in his head. Not until now.<p>

_Arthur couldn't concentrate on his work. His thoughts were scattered, his mind elsewhere. He ignored questions from his co-workers, he didn't speak to any of his employees, and tried as hard as he could to lock himself in his office with claims of being busy._

He had tried so hard to ignore Her, but this bitch would not get out of his head. Arthur couldn't even micromanage properly, a task he prided himself on, when all he heard were this woman's words all day long. He completely missed Gwaine drag the latest giggling secretary into the break room and saw nothing remiss when he glimpsed Leon helping one of the interns because Vivian had gone to get her nails done in the middle of the day. Even worse, he had failed to finish preparing files for the merger so that Percy could look them over before his meeting with Camelot Inc.

Leon walked into Arthur's office around midday to ascertain what could have him so distracted. At first he didn't speak, just closed the door and leaned against it. Leon knew that he should only enter unannounced with urgent business and that he definitely should not stand around like the two were old friends, having a chat. Which was why Arthur threw down his pen and put his head in his hands when Leon said, "Arthur, the entire floor is going to hell. What's up?"

Arthur knew that he should have snapped into Pendragon mode and _done something, _but he only managed, "Leon, I think I'm being followed and they're trying to kill me."  
>"Do you think it's someone from another company? Is there anyone who'd want to hurt you or your father?" Arthur had to pride Leon on some things. He was loyal to a fault, even when Arthur thought that he might be going mad.<p>

"No, I mean, I keep hearing this voice and She keeps narrating parts of my life – mundane ones as of now – but the point is that I keep hearing her and I need to stop before it gets out of hand."

Arthur searched the other man's face for some sign of belief or denial before Leon said, "Arthur, you're sitting at a desk, typing up reports, what on Earth could she narrate?"

"No, watch this," Arthur said before going back to his work. As he typed That Voice stated:

When his _fingers moved across the keyboard, Arthur could almost imagine the sound of his father's footsteps on the stairs, signaling that he was home from work. It reminded Arthur of those rare days when he stayed up long enough to hear his father enter the house and check on him at night. Truthfully, though Arthur would never admit it to himself, if he typed quickly enough, he could hear the continuous sound of footsteps, as though Uther actually spent an adequate amount of time at home, being the father that his son deserved._

"Oh, God, Leon, now she's making me think about my bloody feelings. I have to make this stop," Arthur said angrily. "Except the worst part is that sometimes I do wish - "

Arthur stopped himself before uttering something that might suggest an emotional breakdown. Even so, Leon looked like Arthur had just grown another head in the shape of a peacock.

"Right, well, in that case, let's get you out of the office then," he sputtered. "I just got a new case with a baker right downtown. Accounting says that he hasn't been paying off the loan we gave him to start his bakery, which is a direct breach of contract. I'd do it myself, but it looks like you need some time off."

Arthur fully agreed with the need to do something out of his routine, but he didn't understand how seeing some poor, delinquent, baker would help him.

"Leon, I'm not sure if –"

"Arthur, and I mean this in the kindest way possible, you're a bit useless today. You can go downtown, turn on the Pendragon scowl, and put this baker in his place."

Arthur knew that Leon was playing up to his ego and it worked. With that, Arthur picked up his coat and his briefcase, leaving Pendragon Industries, but absolutely taking the company car to wherever this bakery was.

Arthur walked into this bakery, thinking that this would be an in and out case like the rest of them. A bell rang when he opened the door, alerting the patrons to his entrance. They knew instantly that he didn't belong here. Their eyes raked over his suit and judged his polished loafers, before turning away in dismissal. Arthur looked around and saw a set up of vintage tables, chairs, and small church pews that were most likely meant to look artsy, but came off as though someone had shaken up an Ikea and thrown it on the floor.

His eyes moved to the counter and the ceiling to floor ovens behind it that contained all manner of breads and pastries. There were no pictures on the walls, but someone had painted landscapes directly on them. Overall, Arthur thought that this place was just like any wretched run of the mill bakery: a teaspoon of individuality drowned in

It only took him a moment to realize that he had gotten more than he had bargained for. He had not expected to meet the owner of Balinor's Bakery – called Balinor's by the locals - nor had he expected the owner to be a young, gangly man whose ears stuck out at all angles and whose hair curled slightly at the edges. He had not expected this owner to ignore him from the moment he walked through the door for seemingly no reason at all, purely on principle. But, most of all, Arthur had not expected the owner not to care.

"Mr. Emrys," he tried again. "Two years ago, Pendragon Industries granted Balinor's a small business loan as a part of our outreach program. We told you that you had to start paying us back monthly or we would take the money in full. If you don't start paying us back, we'll buy out your business and sell it to someone else."

Mr. Emrys kneaded a wad of dough with focus, the heels of his hands pounding it over and over again onto the countertop, paying Arthur no mind.

"Mr. Emrys, are you listening to me?" Arthur tried.

Suddenly, the bell above the door rang again, signaling a new patron. As a timid-looking, redhead made her way to the front of the store, Arthur watched Mr. Emrys rest his hands and look up at her with gleaming eyes.

"I'm just finishing your dough, Freya. If you stick around I can have these buns ready in half an hour," Mr. Emrys said, sweetly. The redhead nodded her approval.

"It's no problem, Merlin. I love watching you work. Take as long as you need," she replied. Freya smiled brightly while Merlin's sure fingers went back to work. Arthur felt something akin to jealousy watching the two of them. No one looked at him with such assurance. Everyone's eyes asked him a question: Could he handle all of the responsibilities of is job? Would he be able to inherit the company and keep it moving forward? And, most importantly, could he ever be as successful his father in business? However, when Merlin's customers looked at him all they saw was pure assurance and warmth. Uther had trained Arthur in identifying a person's strengths and weaknesses. It was no mystery that this man's strength lay in his ability to make his customers happy.

"Are you ignoring me?" Arthur said, curiously. No one ever ignored a Pendragon, but this man…this man was something that he had never encountered before.

"Sorry, didn't see you standing there. Can I get you something?"

"No, you can't. Besides, shouldn't you be doing that kind of work in the back, Mr. Emrys?" he said, thoroughly irritated.

"Uh…I'm sorry, do I know you?"

Arthur really couldn't take this man anymore. This baker had to be playing him or was just plain stupid.

"I'm Arthur Pendragon from Pendragon Industries. We gave you a loan as a part of our "Get What You Give" Program to help the community. You got two years to start your business and you were supposed to start paying us twelve months ago, but you haven't. Does any of this sound familiar?" Arthur took a step forward so that he could place his hands on the counter.

"Of course it does. Did you really think I had no idea who you were Pratdragon? How many blond-haired boys, dressed in Armani do you think walk through here like they own the world?"

The baker looked up momentarily to flash a sly grin Arthur's way before grabbing a rolling pin to flatten his mound of dough.

Arthur put his briefcase down by his feet and straightened the lapels on his suit jacket. He would need total concentration to take on this baker.

Just then, another man emerged from what had to be the kitchen with a large tray full of freshly baked muffins and started to restock the display.

"We got a problem, Merlin?" the other employee asked, looking up.

"No, Will, remember when we were in a pinch a few years ago because the banks wouldn't lend and Mom applied for that loan without telling us? A guy from Pendragon Industries is here to collect. Took you long enough, eh?" Mr. Emrys – Merlin? – said.

"See what I told you? If it took them three years to notice that you hadn't paid up, how much will a measly eighty thousand do them at all?" Will clapped Merlin on the back as he walked by to get more food for the display.

"Excuse me?" Arthur asked. This man seemed not to know what position he was in. "I don't even need to be here. I can buy your bakery out from under you right this second for defaulting on a loan. In case you're too dim to understand, I own you."

Arthur's tone of voice had made everyone in the store turn to stare at their altercation. An absurdly cute couple with a small, HAPPY ANNIVERSARY cake, paused with their forks halfway to each other's mouths and the resident homeless man in the corner looked out sheepishly from under his eyelids.

That sentence sealed his fate. Merlin Emrys bored into him with lethal blue eyes, a smirk from the deepest depths of hell, and hidden muscles that flexed under his uniform while he kneaded.

"You own me?" Emrys challenged. "From the looks of it, I own you. What happens if business goes south and everybody defaults on their loans? Pratdragon Industries goes under and anarchy wins the day." A cheer erupted from the patrons at Balinor's.

_Arthur couldn't imagine Mr. Emrys as an anarchist._

"Why now, of all times?" Arthur lamented. Arthur needed to be strong for his company. He needed to be assertive and ruthless, the way his father taught him. He needed to show this man who thought that he was Arthur's equal the way that things would be when he tried to go up against his father's multi-billion dollar corporation. He didn't need Her in his head.

_Arthur couldn't see Mr. Emrys' flour-covered hands holding signs in front of Pendragon Industries or shouting obscenities at big businesses. He couldn't imagine Mr. Emrys' long, thin legs running from tear gas or guards with dogs. For some reason, all Arthur could imagine were his fingers making their way up Mr. Emrys' jaw, Arthur's legs parting his thighs, and those wonderfully pouty lips screaming Arthur's name while he –_

"Hey, Pratdragon?" Mr. Emrys said for – judging by his tone – at least the third or fourth time.

"Yes," Arthur managed.

"I told you to fuck off, but you keep staring at my ears."

"I'm what?" Arthur said indignantly. "I did no such thing. And if I did, it was merely because your ears are large and in the way. It simply couldn't be helped. You have thirty days to pay up, Mr. Emrys. I'll be back next week if you don't."

Arthur truly planned on coming back himself next week. No one had ever talked to Arthur like an equal before, much less like a lesser being. He needed to show this baker exactly where he stood in this situation. Arthur left Balinor's with patrons shouting obscenities at him and 'accidentally' spilling coffee on his pants, in the hopes that Mr. Emrys wouldn't pay back a cent.

_ That night, after Arthur Pendragon Arthur had brushed his thirty-two teeth, seventy-six times, he dreamt of long fingers kneading dough and the smell of muffins fresh, out of the oven._

_Sandra, the unemployed woman, had dressed smartly for her interview today. She wore a cream pantsuit that perfectly complemented her mocha skin._ _ With her matching purse and heels, she set off to look for 3749 W. Kipler St, but for some reason she kept circling between 3736 and 3751. Sandra stepped forward to ask for directions just as Max swerved by on his new bicycle, hitting a man cleaning the streets with a hose. Without its master, the hose writhed on the ground and sprayed water all over Sandra's lovely cream shoes._

_"Hey, watch it!" Sandra exclaimed, before moving on to ask for directions on a drier street corner._

Morgana LeFray did not have writer's block. She had simply given up on her literature for a few years and now that she wanted to get back to her craft, her muse needed a little coaxing. She couldn't blame the little devil. After ten years of nothing, she hadn't expected it to be easy to get her muse – nor herself – back on track. However, she hadn't thought it impossible either.

Thus, Morgana had kicked off her designer red pumps and climbed on top of her desk to imagine how her main character would die. She finished smoking her sixth cigarette of the morning and stubbed it out in her crystal ashtray. She tied up her wavy, black hair so that it wouldn't get in the way and prepared to leap.

She closed her eyes and imagined her desk as the Empire State Building. She imagined all of the cars, bikes, and taxis below her and whether these people would be more concerned that someone had died or that they would be late for work. She took a deep breath and imagined how frightened she would be, how she would squash that fear, and what her last thoughts would be. Without any cushion underneath her, Morgana prepared to jump as she heard the door open.

"Excuse me," someone asked. "Excuse me, are you Morgana LeFray?"

Morgana turned ready to unleash hellfire on her intruder. She found herself looking into the eyes of a small, black woman with curly brown hair. She had dressed in a colorful dress with pastel shoes and a faux pearl necklace.

"Yes, of course I'm Morgana LeFray," she responded.

Morgana made a sweeping gesture with her hand before saying, "Research."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting you?" This woman worried at her lip for a moment, looking torn between instinct and obligation. "My name is Guinevere Smith. I'm the assistant that your publishers hired. You can call me Gwen."

Morgana crouched down on her desk and leaned in.

"You're the spy?" she said with a mischievous glint in her. "You're the one that Random House sent because they don't think I can finish my book by the deadline?"

"Ms. LeFray, I assure you that I provide the same services as a secretary. I'm here to help."

She scrambled to find some way to be useful before resting her eyes at Morgana's feet. She walked fully into the room to run her fingers across numerous pages written in different hands, some recent and some from years past.

"Like with these. Are they pages?" she asked, looking up.

"No, they're letters," Morgana answered. "My fans send me letters. Sometimes I read them, but I never respond." She saw Gwen's face frown slightly on her way to the other side of the table. "But why are you really here Gwen? When you say 'help me,' does that mean help me if I get distracted because the publishers think I have writer's block?"

Morgana came down from her desk to put on her heels from where she'd left them. Gwen stayed next to the desk that Morgana had abandoned.

"Do you have writer's block, Ms. LeFray?"

Morgana looked out a window, her mind in a different place entirely. "Gwen, what do you think about leaping off of a building?"

"Oh, no I don't think of – "

"You've never thought of committing suicide?"

"No, of course not. I'm not going to do that so why think about it?"

"Everyone thinks about it."

"Well, I don't," Gwen smiled in a way that made Morgana understand why she'd never thought about leaping off a building. She wondered if she had ever written a smile like that, but doubted it.

"Then how are you going to help me, Guinevere? If you've never thought of leaping off of a building, how will you help me decide how to kill Arthur Pendragon? As much as I would like to, I can't just throw him off of a building. He could get shot, stabbed, or poisoned in a ploy to destroy the company, but that would be too obvious and too crude."

Morgana picked up cigarette number seven and fished under the letters for her lighter. Gwen found it first, but when Morgana reached out to take it, she held it back.

"Ms. LeFray - " Gwen shook her head and tried again. "Morgana. I've been doing this professionally for over 10 years and unprofessionally, my entire life. My mother was a writer and I helped her finish books all the time. I've helped more than 20 authors complete more than 35 books and I've never gone back to ask for more time. I'll be here to help you every day so that you can choose how to kill Arthur Pendragon. Okay?"

Gwen held the lighter out as a verbal contract. If Morgana took it, it would mean accepting Gwen's help and if she didn't, it would mean the start of more arguments. She looked from Gwen's palm to her writing laptop and back again.

"Okay," she said.

No accounting classes or business lectures could have prepared him for what he had found in a box that Arthur had affectionately named The Void. To Arthur's despair, Merlin Emrys had successfully stuffed every piece of paper he could find into this thing even a few that looked like they had come directly off the floor. He had spent the last nine hours – with a fifty-four lunch break – distinguishing between invoices, smeared with dried batter, and phone numbers, stained with old beer.

Even so, what had kept him even more distracted from his fate were the contents of this back room. For one thing, it could barely hold the desk, chair, cabinet, and bookshelf used to furnish it, let alone Arthur and the tax files.

By the end of the day, Arthur was so hungry and bored from looking at an endless stream of numbers on a page, he picked up his briefcase and walked back into the kitchen in time to see Merlin grabbing the last pan of something out of the oven. He had swapped the sweatpants from this morning for jeans, but had thrown on a plaid button-up in an attempt to cover up that awful black shirt.

Arthur didn't say anything at first, simply let Merlin walk to the counter, gently sliding one pastry after another of the pan with a plastic spatula. His eyebrows were wrinkled in concentration, but Arthur could hear Merlin muttering softly to his baked goods, telling them to slide nicely and not to be stubborn like some blond businessmen he knew.

"Excuse me?" he asked. "Are you talking to inanimate objects?"

"All the time," he uttered, not missing a beat. "You should fear for my sanity."

Arthur's face fell at that. His closed his eyes in defeat, letting his suitcase sag to the ground. He was so done with wondering whether or no he was crazy, whether or not he was going to die.

The heir of a multi-billion dollar corporation and he hadn't even done anything that he could be proud of. He needed time. Just a little more time. He needed to make something of himself. Arthur refocused his attention back to Merlin. He had dropped the pan to meet Arthur's disturbed gaze with an equally concerned one.

"Maybe you should fear for mine," he said, still breathing hard. "I should go."

He pulled away reluctantly from Merlin's hand on him and tried to regain his composure. He glanced around for where his briefcase before spotting it in Merlin's hand. He stepped forward as his counterpart pulled back.

"Have a seat, Pendragon or I'll take this and roast it in the oven."

He didn't have the will to fight anymore. Arthur moved to a seat with Merlin on his heels. He slumped into a chair.

"What's this?"

"Chocolate chip cookies and milk. What does it look like?" Merlin sat down next to him, incredulous. "Have you never had cookies and milk?"

"Not often, no. Father never believed in anything as frivolous as desserts, especially not cookies."

Merlin turned to him, head had tilted to one side, eyes wary, but gentle. He hadn't moved since he'd put the cookies down, as though sitting meant conceding something.

"You might as well eat one then, especially since we seem to be on a first name basis." He pushed the plate a little closer.

_Arthur Pendragon couldn't believe that he had slipped so much that now he was calling clients by their first names. Then again, he already had already missed work, gone out of his way to visit a baker that he didn't particularly like, and all but bitch slapped all protocol across the face. What harm could a few cookies cause? _

"Right, well, since it's been a while, let me explain how you do it. First you pick up a cookie, then you dunk it in the milk, and – now listen, this is the important part – you eat it," Merlin instructed

Arthur shot Merlin a disapproving glare, but followed the directions exactly. The moment the cookie hit his tongue, it transported him back to childhood. He remembered running down the stairs of his large, empty mansion because he could smell the maid, Luisa, baking cookies while his father was away on business. He remembered tugging on her apron, jumping up and down, attempting to touch the pan as she removed it from the oven. He remembered the taste of the cookies, but most of all, he remembered the warmth. Warmth from the oven, from the cookies, from Luisa, who was the closest he would ever get to having a mother.

"What do you think?" Merlin asked. His face still maintained that natural defiance, but Arthur could see the same look that he gave himself at home in the mirror. He wanted Arthur to approve of his food.

"Eh...you could go a bit lighter on the cinnamon next time," he said. Merlin would have to a little more work for a compliment. "Didn't they teach you anything in college?"

Immediately, Merlin's face changed. He dropped his eyes, shifted his seat away from Arthur, and rubbed his hands back and forth on his jeans.

"They taught me a lot, but nothing about baking." He moved his right hand from his leg to the table and began drawing designs into the wood with his fingers.

"They didn't teach you anything in cooking school?" Arthur may have let his guard shatter to pieces, but he was still a businessman and he knew how to ask relevant questions.

"They might have, if I ever went," Merlin abruptly got out of the chair, went back behind the counter and grabbed the rest of the cookies from where he had abandoned them on the counter. He filled up a second plate, talking while he worked, but deliberately not looking at Arthur's face.

"I'm sorry; could we start this from the beginning, please?"

"Long story, short? I didn't go to culinary school. I went to Johns Hopkins Medical School for oncology."

Arthur's eyes bulged before he had time to collect himself. This idiotic, treacherous baker had gone to one of the best medical schools in the world and had somehow ended up selling pastries in a two-by-four property in the city? He cast his eyes downward, but not fast enough for Merlin to miss the look on his face.

"I was even more surprised than you are, believe me," he continued, bringing the second plate of cookies back to the table and giving them to Arthur.

"I barely got in, to be honesty. The only reason they even admitted me was because I wrote an essay about my dad, Balinor. He was your traditional man in almost every way, you know? Broad shoulders, deep voice, strong opinions, but he had a gigantic sweet tooth. Thing is, he was also a big smoker. He died from lung cancer before I turned thirteen."

Merlin's face lost a bit of his glow at that point and Arthur knew that the relationship between Merlin and Balinor was nothing like him and his father.

_Arthur started on his second cookie, enraptured by the story. He didn't understand how someone who he barely knew could feel so at ease putting all of his emotions on the table. Then again, Arthur didn't understand how he could feel so at ease listening, when he had problems with hearing his staff talk about their vacations._

"I kept my grades up to get into a great university and wrote an essay about how I would find cure so that no one else would have to go through that. Sounds pretty cliché, but I guess they bought it. After I got in, I found out that they made us do these mandatory study groups. Whenever we studied, everyone looked liked their lives depended on getting perfect grades, but all I thought of was how much Dad loved it when Mom baked for him, even after he got sick. I thought, 'If baking can give a dying man this much peace, why can't it help everyone?''" he paused for a moment to grab a cookie and take a bite. He made an unsatisfied face at the cookie, but kept eating.

"By the end of the semester I had twenty-seven study partners, a 3-inch binder full of recipes, and a D average, but I didn't care. Everyone else had A's because of my food and that made me happy," he finished.

"Wow," Arthur deadpanned. "And your family let you do that?"

"Quit med school? Of course, you see the walls?" Arthur took a real look at the landscapes painted directly on the two longer walls. On one side someone had created a coastal scene that began as waves crashing on the rocks, but gradually expanded into an entire ocean, complete with a fishing boat named _Aberdeen_, an oil rig floating in the sea. On the other wall, the artist had made a farmer's market, slowly morph into a castle, which, in turn, turned into a metropolitan skyline.

"That's Aberdeen, Scotland, where my family is from. Mom moved to the United States after Dad died so that we could have a better life. To show me that she wasn't disappointed, she painted them so that I could always have a piece of home. She said that even if I wasn't a doctor, none of it mattered as long as I remembered my father and where we came from," he stared at the walls fondly.

"You don't have an accent," Arthur speculated.

"I keep it in Scotland," he said, jokingly. "But, going back you your question, I'm sure you've made decisions that not everyone has agreed with," he said.

Arthur snorted, going for Cookie #3. "Like admitting that I can hear voices?"

"You what?" Arthur watched as Merlin took his turn to look baffled. He scrubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes and gave up all pretense of sanity.

"What would you do if your...friend heard a voice that was narrating your life and The Voice said that you were going to die…hypothetically," he added hastily.

"Well, I would thank my author for thinking that my life is interesting enough to make a story out of and then tell it to get the fuck out of my head and stop trying to kill me," he said finitely.

"Your author?" Arthur said quizzically. "Like, you're a character in a book?"

"Well, yeah. Why else would someone be narrating your _friend_?" Merlin said in disbelief. Arthur considered this, purposefully ignoring Merlin's piercing gaze. "I'd tell him to go see a literature specialist to see what kind of novel he's in. It makes a difference whether he's Romeo or Dracula. Either that or tell him to get some meds for schizophrenia."

Merlin took Arthur's plate and took it behind the counter and came back with his briefcase.

"Now go home. We closed an hour ago," he said with a faux seriousness that made Arthur chuckle.

That night, when he walked home, Arthur wondered what type of novel someone would write about him and why they would put him with an eccentric baker that he couldn't get out of his head.

Morgana backed out of her driveway in the pouring rain caused by Hurricane Carla, immersing herself in another idea. She checked herself in the mirror, rearranging her hair and spaghetti strap top. It was a rare occasion that Morgana left the house in a camisole and stretch pants, but she justified it today as a necessity. After making sure that no cars had decided to pull out unexpectedly, she drove until she reached a small bridge. Morgana frowned, wishing that she could get out of the car to feel the oil-slick roads beneath her, that she could lean down to touch and smell the metal, but she was in the business of killing others, not getting run over herself.

Sandra, the unemployed woman, now had a job as a bus driver for the local transportation authority and Morgana watched her pass on her left. Both vehicles were coming up to a bridge with a toll at the other end. Morgana felt her car dip as she crossed the road to the grid. Max, the twelve year-old boy, shouldn't have been riding his bike in the rain, let alone the across a bridge with drivers who could rival NASCAR professionals.

Max still hadn't quite conquered steering yet, and made a sharp turn off of the pavement and onto the bridge. Sandra gasped and stopped her bus to avoid collision, but it was already too late for Morgana. She had swerved too fiercely and felt the car slip out of her control. She braced herself against the steering wheel, waiting for the incident to unfold. She could not escape her car as it arched backward, her trunk hitting the rails first, tipping the hood upward.

For one idiotic moment, Morgana thought she would survive this. Her car tilted upward and she saw a ray of sunlight peak out from behind the storm clouds, but she must have imagined it because in less time than it took her to realize her death, the sunlight disappeared. In less than a second, the car flipped over completely and hit the water below. Morgana watched the water form claws that reached threateningly into the air before wrapping themselves around her car in triumph. She closed her eyes, letting the claws envelope her in an icy embrace seeking entrance through the windows, through her clothes, through a warm touch on her shoulder.

"Ms. LeFray?" someone asked, still touching her.

She opened her eyes to find herself sitting on the sidewalk by the bridge, completely soaked through, her cigarette extinguished, and car parked a few blocks away. Morgana hated being called back to the present, especially when she had prepared herself to leave reality behind completely.

"Gwen, what are you doing here? Didn't I tell you I don't need an assistant?" Morgana declared. In a certain way, she found it funny. Rarely could anything steal her from her own imagination, but Gwen was so warm, so radiant, that she could even make a fictional death seem peaceful.

"You keep saying that, Ms. LeFray, but you're out in the rain, sitting on the ground, wearing a tank top and sweatpants, getting drenched. God, now you're shivering. Get under here so that we can go back to the office and get you some clothes," Gwen offered.

Morgana turned to look at her properly for the first time. Gwen had switched from colorful dress to a pastel pink pantsuit and gestured with a yellow umbrella that could fit at least three people underneath it. Morgana looked down at herself and back at the road before she gave in to Gwen's demands.

"Fine, let's go," she conceded. "Did you bring your car?"

"Well, of course I did, but where's yours?"

"I left it home and walked here. I needed to feel the rain and be properly frozen to try and imagine Arthur's car wreck," Morgana said finitely. She tossed the cigarette on the ground and allowed Gwen to walk them both to her silver Prius that looked too small for her to lose control and drown in.

"So that's how you're doing it then? A car wreck?" Gwen inferred.

"No, I can't," Morgana said upon reaching the car. She waited until Gwen got in on the other side before she continued.

"Here," Gwen said, handing her a towel from the backseat and starting the car. "I had a feeling you would need this, so I brought it along. Put it between you and the seat, please."

Morgana did as she was told, while Gwen cranked up the heater. The moment of imagination had passed, in vain, leaving no need to remain wet and potentially hypothermic.

"First off, Arthur may like to drive fast, but I haven't mentioned that yet. As far as the reader knows he either catches the bus or has his driver take him places. Also, the crash didn't involve two minor characters that I've already introduced," she said.

"Can you take them out? Or maybe put them somewhere else in Arthur's life?"

"I'm writing a novel, Gwen, not rearranging the living room furniture. If I've already created and developed a character, I'm not going to just remove them because they're not cooperating. Besides, I couldn't really feel the scene they way I needed to, so I knew it wasn't right."

Morgana had disconnected herself from the crash once Max crossed her path. She could see the accident, but she couldn't feel anything. Fear hadn't arrested her heart at the thought of death by drowning. She hadn't screamed when the car flipped over, and more importantly, she didn't even know how much force it would take to get a car through the reinforcements of a bridge.

"In any case, I think you've got the 'properly frozen' part under control. You look like you're three steps away from catching pneumonia," Gwen assessed.

"Pneumonia?" Morgana contemplated. "Could I kill Arthur with pneumonia?" She shook her head in disbelief. "No…no, he would never let anyone get close enough to him to get pneumonia. Except maybe Merlin, but I wouldn't put that on his conscience. It's already bad enough that I'm killing him; Arthur shouldn't have to die by the hand of the person he's falling in love with."

"He's falling in love? I thought you said he was an arrogant prick who didn't care about anything but himself and his company." Gwen stopped at a yellow light, her driving more cautious than Morgana approved of.

"No, I said he's an arrogant prick who doesn't care about anything but himself and pleasing his father, which in turn means making his company as successful as possible. But he's turning into someone else now, and I don't think I can stop him. His feelings for Merlin are a little too much for either of us to handle,"

"Turning into? Can't your characters be anyone you need them to be?"

"Most times they are, but not this one. I knew Arthur would be stubborn, but he's doing everything all wrong. It's almost like he has a life of his own, like I can't control him, like I never did," she completed.

The two drove the rest of the way in silence, both of them considering how to finish a book that was rapidly spiraling out of control.


	2. Part II

Two more days away from Pendragon Industries was all it took before Arthur started to get anxious. He had started to go in to the office this morning, even gone to the extent of putting on a suit and tie. He had turned on his computer and looked up literature specialists working at universities in the area as opposed to responding to the many emails regarding his absence. He wondered vaguely if Leon would beat down his door anytime soon, but he couldn't let himself worry about it when he might be dead in the two minutes.

At the rate this literature specialist climbed the stairs, he wondered if he would die of exhaustion. The man he found had introduced himself as simply 'Mordred' and the university website hadn't listed a first name. The man, though boy would have been a more accurate description, seemed perfect for sitting indoors and reading book after book until his body welded itself into the sofa.

He stood barely five feet off the ground, clothes slightly resembling those of the Tenth Doctor in the way that he wore a brown suit, but with a dark green overcoat instead of a brown one. He walked swiftly, without looking directly at Arthur, always keeping one step ahead of him.

"So you're the one who called my office yesterday about the narrator," Mordred stated, pronouncing each of his syllables, but keeping them as short as possible, just like a literature specialist should. He practically ran up the stairs after coming to retrieve Arthur from the ground floor of the literature department.

"Yes, I'm Arthur Pendragon," he said, extending his hand. Mordred stopped, looked at his hand and scoffed. Arthur withdrew, looking down at his hand and nervously flexing his fingers while Mordred kept walking.

"I know who you are. I'm not going to waste my time with just anyone who calls my office, Mr. Pendragon," he said, passing through the first floor.

"This narrator who you told me about says that you're going to die, is that correct?"

"Yes, Professor Mordred," he tried.

"Not Professor, just Mordred." Mordred left the first floor to enter a second staircase at the other end of the corridor. "Now, how long has she given you to live?"

"I don't know, she hasn't told me," he admitted.

Mordred heaved an exasperated sigh. "Dramatic irony can be such a bitch sometimes."

Arthur didn't know how he felt about this man who looked like a preteen cursing, but he let Mordred keep talking.

"Look, Mr. Pendragon, are you crazy or what? Because I don't have time to play around with spoiled rich boys, suffering from multiple personality disorder because they're overstressed at work.

He stopped on the second floor landing, not caring that he was leading Arthur into the men's bathroom.

"No, I'm not overworked. I need some answers like, why are we in the bathroom, for starters."

Mordred paid Arthur no mind. Instead he asked, "Are you sexually active?"

"Excuse me?" Not even Uther had asked Arthur that question, let alone a urinating stranger.

"You never know what kinds of weird fetishes people have these days. Your sexual frustration could have manifested itself as a desire to have a different life. Maybe, be someone else?"

"Mordred, I can assure you that that's not the issue. Can we please –"

"Hmm, how many stairs did we climb to get up here?"

"I…I don't know." The old Arthur would have counted the stairs. Uther had always taught him to notice every detail that most people would miss so that he could stay one step ahead of the game. The new Arthur, the one with death sentence, couldn't care less.

"So you work for your father at Pendragon Industries?" Mordred made his way out of the bathroom, expecting Arthur to follow. Somehow his facial expression never changed no matter the question or the answer.

"Yes."

"Have you ever been married?"

"No," Arthur said, unsure if he should continue. "I was engaged once to a woman named Vivian, but it was a political marriage. Father wanted our companies to merge, so he set us up."

"Who ended it?"

"I did. I finally admitted to my father that I was gay and called off the wedding," he said, remembering that day with painful clarity. Most of all, he remembered his father telling him to marry Vivian anyway because love didn't last, but the company had to.

"Do you have a lot of friends?" Mordred had walked them to an elevator and pressed the up arrow.

"Not too many. It's hard to know who's a friend and who's in it for the money."

The elevator came with a soft ding and no passengers.

"What does your narrator sound like?"

"She's a woman. She sounds young, but accomplished. I don't think I'm her first book," Arthur replied, watching the door close.

"Do you recognize her voice? Is she someone you know?"

"I have no idea who she could be."

"Did you count the tiles in bathroom, by any chance?"

"No, I wasn't counting the tiles. I was answering your questions. Mordred, how is this relevant?"

"If you really are a character, I need to see what type of man you are. I've just walked you through half of the department and you haven't complained. I urinated with you in the room and you didn't say a word and now I'm still not completely convinced that you aren't deranged, but I can tell that you assess everything. Even right now, you're assessing me, aren't you?"

Arthur remained silent. He knew that Mordred didn't want an answer. They took a few more steps in silence before they reached a vending machine.

"Would you like some coffee, Mr. Pendragon?"

"No, Mordred, I would like to know who is trying to kill me."

"A woman tells you that you're going to die and you just believe her? Did she pass your assessment?"

"She didn't tell me directly. She doesn't exactly know that I'm listening."

"But she did predict your death and you believed that."

"She's been right about everything else. She's narrated my life for the past few weeks now,"

"What kinds of things does she narrate?"

"How I feel at work, how I feel about other people, general things," he muttered hastily.

"Not the most insightful voice, is she? It seems like she's telling you what you already know," he paused for a moment, reflecting on the facts. "If I told you that you were going to die, would you believe me?"

"Of course not. I don't even know you," he says, a bit too quickly.

"You don't know her either. Quite frankly, Mr. Pendragon, I can't help you," Mordred stated.

Arthur almost slammed this man-child's head into a wall. He didn't have time for insolent professors who would rather work on another thesis than save his life.

"Why not?"

"Because you've given me nothing to go on. I'm not an expert in multiple personality disorder. I'm an expert in literary theory and analysis. Thus far, it just sounds like you're a lonely, overworked man whose inner voice has adopted the tone of a woman,"

"No, there has to be something else. Her vocabulary is too well thought out to come from me. If I did have another personality she wouldn't be so well-spoken all of the time and she most definitely would not be a she," he said stubbornly.

"Fine, the most literary thing about you might be your name, but there are so many Arthurian legends that it would be impossible for me to tell if you're Prince Arthur, waiting to inherit the throne or King Arthur ready to lead the troops into battle. I'm already mentoring two doctoral candidates, teaching five classes, and I coach chess at a recreation center in the city,"

"I'm sorry, I just thought you could help possibly, oh, I don't know, keep me alive,"

"Maybe you should keep a journal of everything she says to you. That's all I can suggest,"

"I don't need a journal. The most important thing that she's said is, 'Little did he know that this simple, seemingly innocuous act would result in his imminent death,'"

"Did you just say, 'Little did he know'?"

"Yes, 'Little did he know that this…'" he started.

"Mr. Pendragon, I've written papers on, 'Little did he know.' I used to teach a class based on, 'Little did he know. I once gave an entire seminar at Princeton on, 'Little did he know.' God damn it, 'Little did he know' means that there's something you don't know and you can't tell me what you don't know, can you?"

Mordred turned to look at his calendar, with Arthur practically seething by the door. He knew that literature specialists had a way with words, but Mordred hadn't yet suggested anything that he could actually do and it made him want to punch a wall.

"Come back on Friday at 9:45am."

"That's it? Ten seconds ago, you wouldn't help me and now you want me to come back?" he asked, incredulously.

"It's been a very revealing ten seconds, Mr. Pendragon. I'll see you on Friday," he said, sitting at his desk and engrossed in an article before Arthur even had a chance to leave the room.

Arthur stood outside of the university, feeling more dejected than when he had gone in. For the first time since his death sentence he actually had some hope that maybe someone could help him figure out why he was hearing voices, why someone wanted him dead, and why he couldn't seem to be the assertive Pendragon that his father had raised him to be.

He made a left at the first street corner, not really watching where he walked. He sniffed once, the closest he would ever come to crying and scrubbed a hand across his face. He couldn't think or feel and it took all of his energy just to keep moving.

Uther Pendragon had always taught him to be strict and analytical, no matter what. He had instructed Arthur to do what was best for the family name because if people didn't respect the family name, then nothing else mattered.

Arthur stopped at the end of the block and looked at himself with new eyes. He hadn't gone to work in half a week and yet he still carried it with him. He had let the business training that he had learned for Pendragon Industries transform how he lived his life. This had never been a problem in the past, since most of his relationships had to do with the company. He didn't truly known how to have friends. Everyone was below him and his coworkers respected - or pretended to respect - him so much that it made him want to scream. What was respect if he had nothing else left at the end of the day?

In the midst of his thoughts, Arthur's feet led him home strictly on muscle memory since his brain had gone to on autopilot. He trudged toward the elevator waiting for it to carry him to a place where he could relax and sleep away all thoughts of dying. For once in his life he didn't know if he could handle this. His brain felt too full and the rest of him, extremely hollow. When the doors finally opened, he pushed his way inside, ignoring the angry looks of his victims, aching for the comfort of his own room. The lift rose slowly and took forever to get to where he wanted, but arriving in his room didn't give him the relief he desired.

He stepped inside, tossing his coat on the rack beside the door frame and letting his keys fall on the coffee table in front of the television. His breath came fast, faster than he had anticipated, his eyes shut of their own accord as Arthur tried and failed to regain control of himself. He needed a way to get out of his own head, even for a little while.

The couch beckoned and Arthur didn't have the strength to resist its siren call. Stretching himself across his plush loveseat, Arthur flipped channels aimlessly, before finding the tail end of a yoga program. The instructor on television was a young woman, most likely in her late twenties, with long brown hair and a slender form. She wore a standard athletic outfit, a pink sports bra and a pair of thin, black sweatpants. He closed his eyes, listening to the woman gave precise directions.

"Now, we're going to move into corpse position," she said softly.

Arthur snorted. Did everything have to remind him of his so-called imminent death?

"…that's it. Concentrate on your breathing. Relax all of your muscles. Close your eyes and keep taking those deep breaths. Inhale," she paused to give home viewers time to follow her instructions, "and exhale. Inhale and exhale..." she continued.

He obeyed the instructor's commands, allowing the tension to melt from his head, travel down his arms, seep from his wrists, move further down his body until finally, even his toes relaxed and his mind to let go.  
>"Inhale...exhale. Just like that. Inhale...exhale. Inhale..."<p>

**BANG!**

_Arthur Pendragon was not one to lose his cool. Many a business partner had tried his patience, but no one and nothing had ever made him less that professional. However, when he cast a glance at the hole where his wall used to be, he felt every ounce of sanity leave him completely. Scrambling up from the couch, he brandished a poker from the fireplace, holding it like a knight would hold his lance during a jousting match. The metal monster reached its giant hand into his home and tore it apart, as Arthur stood helpless, watching. It took the monster's retreating and gearing up for another go before he started seeing red._

He really did try to consider all of the logical reasons why there would be a construction crew working on his house before he started beating the claw-like machine with a fire poker.

He wondered if his father had actually gone this far to try and find him, but decided against it. If Uther wanted his son dead, he had easier and more discreet ways of doing so. Second, he thought that maybe an earthquake had occurred, but quickly decided against it since only one wall of the house had been deliberately torn out. Though, when that moment passed, Arthur saw the truth clearly through his shock-induced haze. He stood in front of his couch, the wind blowing debris onto his face, his mind completely blank except for the only thought that made sense.

_Her._

The voice in his head that had told him exactly how this incident had unfolded. She was the only reason why the words 'long-reach excavator' would cross his mind, the only reason why his time was running out, the reason why nothing in his life made sense anymore. This evil, sadistic sower of discord had decided that not only would she sign his death warrant, but that she would make him miserable too? He wouldn't stand for it.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" Arthur bellowed, his voice breaking slightly.

Arthur would not be a puppet whose life his author would play with at will. He could distantly hear the men on the construction crew asking him his name, why he was in the house that would be demolished today and he couldn't even bring himself to be upset with their stupidity because he knew it wasn't their fault. He would find this woman and kill her for everything she had put him through. Arthur Pendragon would be no one's plot device.

The publishers at Random House had warned Gwen before she decided to become Morgana's assistant. They had warned Gwen about her moodiness, the way that she shut everyone out when wrote, and most importantly, they had told her how long she could hold a grudge. Even so, Gwen never thought that she would torture her characters just to prove a point

"Morgana, what on Earth is this?" Gwen asked, halfway between anger and disbelief. She threw down the pages that she had received.

Morgana might have answered if she wasn't so focused on looking as nonchalant as possible.

Gwen looked at her carefully, eyes resting on the way her one-shoulder, black shirt fell across her shoulders and gave the illusion of a gown rather than ready-to-wear fashion. Her stare lingered jealously at the way that even her bun seemed strategically messy, where anyone else would look like they had lost a fight with a grizzly bear.

So when she turned from her computer screen to stare at Gwen knowingly, it was no surprise that Morgana said, "What do you think it is, Gwen? I gave you exactly what you asked for. You said to write something…new."

Patience had always been one of Gwen's strong suits, but this woman knew how to make her want to pull her hair out.

"Morgana, I asked you to write something new. I didn't ask you to ruin a beautiful book that was going so well," she said, exasperated. She couldn't believe that this author - _her_ author - wanted to waste her talent on sticking it to her publishers.

"I told you. You can't rush greatness," she mocked, not sparing a glance.

"And I didn't ask you to. All I asked was that you do something other than smoke cigarettes and contemplate suicide."

Gwen folded her arms in anticipation of the backlash.

"You think that's what I'm doing? Just smoking and playing around? It's a part of the creative process."

"Fuck the creative process. You're just procrastinating like you have been for the past ten years because you're afraid that you've lost your touch," she said, throwing her hands up in defeat.

"Just face it. You're afraid that this book won't be as great as _Death on the Open Road_, but every relationship can't be like Rob and Morgan. Justin and Leanna came close, but like you said, the characters take a life of their own and you can't force their development."

Morgana stilled, turned completely from her computer; hands folded on the desk, and said, "You read my books."

"What?" Even as she said the word, Gwen immediately noticed her mistake. She could tell from the tone of her voice and the mischievous glint in her eye that Morgana hadn't asked her a question.

"You read my _Death and_... series. From the sounds of it you've read them all," she asserted, pushing herself out from behind the desk to walk toward her assistant. Her languid movements reminded Gwen of a huntress stalking her prey.

"I...I mean, the publishers suggested - " she began, taking a few steps backward, her previous anger dissipating faster than mist after sunshine.

"But you read them before then, didn't you? You read _Death in Mississippi, Death and Lunchboxes, Death and the Autumn Breeze_ - "

"That one was exquisite, especially the desert scene," Gwen said, willing to concede the point if it would get Morgana writing again.

"That's the reason why you're here, isn't it? It's the reason why Random House decided to take an interest in me, even though they consider me 'retired.' It's because you read my books and told them to give me another chance and they listened to you."

It didn't take much for Gwen to see that she had finally put a dent in Morgana's highly constructed armor. Morgana walked over to her expanse of windows with heavy steps, her arms in the pockets of deliberately faded jeans, eyes on the outside world. She put a hand on the metal pane, joining the two windows together, but put her other hand right on the glass. Gwen watched Morgana's eyes carefully note

"I pleaded your case pretty well," she admitted.

"Did you?"

"Of course. There were charts and data and beautiful explanations of why people would want to keep reading what you write,"

"You thought Rob and Morgan were my best couple?"

"That depends,"

"On what?"

"On if you're keeping the...what did you call it?" Gwen squinted at the paper again to get the wording right. "Long-reach excavator, whatever that is,"

"It's a crane, like the ones the demolition teams use,"

"Couldn't you just call it a wrecking ball? Even Arthur doesn't know what it is,"

"It's not a wrecking ball. According to Wikipedia, no one uses those anymore,"

"But your character doesn't know what it means,"

"Who cares what it means? It's accurate. And why would Arthur know? He's a corporate businessman, not a contractor,"

"Just take it out, okay?"

"No...but I'll spare you the next chapter where he gets fired from his job and becomes a prostitute,"

"Morgana LeFray, I will not let you sell Arthur into the sex trade, just to anger your publishers. Your readers have a lot of faith in you,"

"Fine, but only because you liked my desert scene. It took me months to get that right."

And after seeing the smile on Morgana's face, Gwen believed every word.

Arthur walked into Balinor's for the third time that week, carrying a large box with no lid. He didn't feel nervous anymore, but felt excited nonetheless. He still hadn't changed out of the clothes from when he went to see Mordred and his shirt was slightly crumpled, but he could call it a style if he wanted.

Anticipation crept up Arthur's spine when he put his hand on the doorknob. He had showed up an hour before closing time, expecting what exactly? But he had nothing to lose either way, so he turned the knob and let himself in.

Merlin's eyes snapped up before he got both feet in the shop.

"What are you doing here?"

"I brought you flours," he said bluntly.

Merlin looked at the box in Arthur's hands, letting his shoulders sag and his wrinkled eyebrows wrinkle to show his confusion at the packages wrapped in brown paper.

"Do I have to grow them myself?" he said.

"No, I mean, I..." Arthur marveled at the unintentional word play. "I brought you flours to bake with. I didn't know what you used so I got unbleached all-propose flour, but you're baker so I also got some bread flour and cake flour. But I still didn't know what kind you use regularly so I bought some whole wheat, pumpernickel, rye, –oh – and potato flour for any gluten free people..."

Merlin laughed genuinely enough that Arthur felt a little less depressed.

"You know I have a guy who gets me at least thirty pounds of this a day, right?"

"But does he give you King Arthur flour?" he joked. "You know, King Arthur flour is the best flour."'  
>"King Arthur flour doesn't consistently turn up on my doorstep once I'm done for the day,"<p>

"Would you rather it showed up in when you open? It's always best when you get your needs taken care of in the morning."

Merlin loosened up a bit at Arthur's blatant innuendo and said, "Well, I'm more of a nighttime guy myself."

"So, what are you making?"

"I'm loaf and I'll probably asked Will to open for me tomorrow so that I could stay up and bake."

"You need to stay up late for that?" he asked disapprovingly.

"Of course, I do. Do you know how long it takes to bake a loaf of bread?"

Arthur stared blankly. It wasn't often that other people taught him how to do things.

"Would you like to find out?"

Merlin gave Arthur the same look that he had seen in the boardroom time and time again. Merlin was deciding whether or not to invest in him or not. Many a board meeting had Arthur prided himself on reeling in many clients with his intelligence and charisma, but he had never had as difficult a sell as he did with Merlin. And he doubted that any other deal would pay off as much either.

"Yes," he said. "I'd love too."

He tossed his suit jacket lightly over the chair and walked behind the counter.

"You'll need to roll up your sleeves and put this on," he said, attempting to wrap Arthur in what looked like a hand towel with strings attached.

"Hey, what is that?" he said, not knowing what would happen if Merlin started touching his waist.

"It's a waist apron. You use it to keep your pants clean and it stays best when you tie it like this."

Merlin's hands were an anesthetic to the events of the last three days. He could feel those fingers through the fabric of his shirt, moving efficiently, so close to his skin and yet so painfully far away.

A part of him, an old part, said that he needed to stop thinking like this, but the new Arthur wanted… everything this man could possibly give him. After half a minute Merlin released him with a, "Great, now let's see how good you are with your hands," which didn't help at all.  
>"I'm going to fetch some butter, honey, yeast, my starter, and why don't you get those flours you're so proud of," he said, patting Arthur on the back the way an owner would congratulate his dog for fetching a Frisbee.<p>

Merlin returned carrying everything that he'd stated, along with a rubber spatula, and a large glass mixing bowl filled in something brown and bubbly.

"You ready?"

Arthur found this statement borderline comical. He considered saying, "I've been given a death sentence, had a literature specialist tell say that my life may or may not be a novel, and watched a bulldozer demolished my apartment. But baking bread? That'll be a challenge."

Instead he settled for a confident, "Always."

"This," he said, gesturing to a foamy liquid. "Is called a starter. It's basically flour and water that I let ferment for a few days. I usually make a lot and try to make as many loaves I can the night before."

It was strange for Arthur to see Merlin in his own element. The man mulit-tasked like it was nothing. He laid out his ingredients, opened the flours Arthur had bought him, and grabbed the necessary baking tools, all the while giving Arthur a thorough explanation of Bread Baking 101.

When he explained the way the dry ingredients needed to get sifted into the wet ones and why this loaf needed three different flour types, he exuded a confidence that Arthur wouldn't have guessed he had. He had seen Merlin be playful, defiant, compassionate, but never this serious. Here was a man that took pride in his work and wouldn't let a corporate businessman get his recipe wrong.

"I'll sift, you knead. Here's your first batch," he said, passing Arthur a bowl filled with a semi-solid brown blob.

Arthur dived straight into the bowl and mixed with fervor, angering at the fact that the dough stuck to his hands when he tried to flip it onto the counter.

"Idiot, didn't I tell you to put flour on your hands first?" he scowled. He sifted some of the flour onto Arthur's hands and went back to his original with sure hands.

He worked the dough for the next few minutes, quickly realizing why Merlin had become a baker. In this place, he could let go of his inhibitions and concentrate on something that he could see. He didn't need to wonder what type of impression he'd made or strategize his next move. The only interaction that mattered was the one between this dough and his hands.

"Okay, let me look at you for a second," he said, hands lightly caressing his creation.

"What?"

"Sorry, I meant the dough. I talk to my food when I cook."

"Am I really that bad to look at?" he asked, glad that Merlin couldn't see his face.

"No! Looking at you isn't bad at all. I mean, not that I look at you all the time or anything..." he said.

His eyes lingered on Arthur in a way that made his breath stop and a blush slither up his neck.

Merlin leaned over to check the sourdough loaf by running his fingers over the top of it and making slight depressions on the surface. The loaf indented a bit, but took longer going back to its original form, making Merlin frown.

"It shouldn't be this dense," he assessed. "Show me what you did before."

Arthur did as he was told, turning the dough lightly on the floured surface.

"Here, try it like this. Put your hands here," he said, stepping behind, just shy of resting on his back, placing his hands over Arthur's. Merlin put their hands on either side of the loaf and looked over Arthur's shoulder, face so close that he could feel those obnoxiously large ears against his.

"You have to really get in there and press against it, going from here," he lifted their hands on the side closest to them, "to here," he drove the heels of their hands into the far side, folding the dough in half and rotating the loaf once more.

"So I just go from this side to that one?" Arthur said, repeating the movement. He angled his head a little to the right for Merlin's response when he remembered that their faces were less than an inch away from each other.

Merlin hadn't expected to be so close and pulled back a bit, making Arthur think that maybe he had been wrong the entire time, that Merlin didn't want him, and that all of his feelings had been based off of fear and insecurity. Then, when Arthur had lost almost all hope, he felt Merlin curve into his body, Merlin's chest melting deliciously into his back.

His neurons disconnected themselves from his brain and all he could feel was the beat of his heart, pounding in time with Merlin's. He felt their faces come closer together, foreheads sliding, mouths so close that either tongue could have made the distance easily.

And Arthur wanted nothing more than to do just that.

"Morgana, I don't understand why we're doing this, especially late at night. Some of us like to sleep, you know," Gwen said in frustration.

Morgana pointedly ignored her so as not to break her concentration. She stared at the gurney supporting a man who couldn't have been a day over twenty-five and looked like he had been fatally wounded. A swarm of nurses and doctors buzzed around him, hoping that he would stabilize, but knowing it was unlikely.

"Sir? Sir, I need you to keep breathing for me, please," one of the nurses said. As a doctor approached, she told him, "We have a twenty-one year old, black male caught in the crossfire of a gang fight. He has GSW's to the leg and abdomen. Stable, but in critical condition."

"Get him to OR #3. I'll get find Wilson," the doctor instructed. The team rounded the corner to the operating room, leaving Gwen and Morgana staring sadly.

"There you go," Gwen said. "Could you Arthur shoot in a gang fight?"

"Arthur's not in a gang, Gwen. Be reasonable," Morgana countered. They had been standing against the wall for an hour and a half, guessing how people in the Intensive Care had come to be there as inspiration for Morgana's death scene. Gwen had offered to go with her and make sure that Morgana didn't irritate the hell out of every nurse on call.

"What about him over there?" Gwen proposed, nodding in the direction of an old man in a dark brown, tweed jacket, who had turned to stare at the both of them. His hair had left him and he needed a cane to walk, but his eyes focused intently on one of the nurses behind the desk, until she got up to see if he needed assistance. Instantly, his face lit up up and he rattled off limb after limb that was giving him trouble.

"No," Morgana assessed. "He's not a patient, he just wants that nurse to cater to his every whim,"

"Sounds like someone I know,"

"You know what? This isn't helping. These people aren't dead yet,"

"Excuse me?"

But Morgana had already headed for the nurses' station.

"Where are the dying people?"

The nurse, a middle-aged black woman in light blue scrubs, looked at Morgana as though she had just asked how to find the doorway to Narnia.

"What did you just say?"

"Look, I'm doing some research and I need to see the dying people. You know, the ones who aren't going to make it," she stated.

"I'm sorry, is this some kind of clinical trial or something?"

"No, I writing a novel and - "

"GWEN!" a man yelled from down the hall. Morgana barely gave him a glance, but looked more thoroughly when she saw the two embracing. The man stood at least six inches taller than Gwen with a well-trimmed beard around the length of his face. He had a gorgeous, full head of hair, but what stood out most to Morgana were his eyes. This man had burning intense eyes that were only for Gwen. Cautiously, Morgana moved in closer to take in the conversation.

"Honey, what's wrong? Are you okay?" he said, checking Gwen over for injuries.

"I'm fine, Lance. I'm here with my boss so that she can stare at dead people,"

"Your boss is here? That evil woman makes you work crazy hours, sit out in the freezing rain, and stare at people while they're dying?"

"You work crazy hours too, you know," she said, eager to change the subject. "Hey, isn't this supposed to be your night off?"

"Yes it is, but someone didn't answer her phone when I told her that my patient got the heart," he said,

"Lance that's…that's wonderful," Gwen said both excited and a bit lethargic.

"Gwen – " Lance began.

"I know," she said, as though she already knew that Lance would say to her. "But transplant surgery is hard for to wrap my head around."

"It's hard for all of us, but it's what we have to do."

A pager at Lance's side beeped frantically so he kissed Gwen goodbye and passed through a set of double doors before disappearing completely. Gwen lingered a moment on the spot where Lance left her, but eventually found Morgana once again.

"You're married?" Morgana demanded. She had seen it in the way they looked at each other and didn't like it one bit. This man, this surgeon, had gotten Gwen's attention and in less the two had been utterly consumed in one another. When he talked, she gave him her undivided attention. Morgana desperately wanted Gwen to look at her that way.

"I…yes," Gwen said, toying with the ring on her left hand.

"You never said you had a husband,"

"You never asked," she retorted. Then, more softly, "I wear this ring every day. I don't know how you missed it."

Morgana couldn't believe how much she had missed between them. So much of her energy had gone into the process of writing a novel that she hadn't realized – and honestly hadn't cared – how much she had put Gwen through. She had considered Gwen more than just an assistant, more than just a friend too. Gwen was hers and she hated sharing her with anyone, even a spouse.

"So he's a surgeon?" she asked sourly.

"Yes, Lancelot – my husband's name is Lancelot – is a pediatric surgeon. He's performing a heart transplant tonight on a ten year-old boy."

"From what I heard, you have a problem with that?" It was no doubt a question, one that even Gwen couldn't explain.

"One of the reasons that I married Lance is that he's genuine. He does surgery on children and if he makes one mistake, his patient dies, the muscle goes to waste, and he comes home distraught. But someone died tonight so that a complete stranger can live. I know the victim won't need the organ anymore, but thinking about dying kids is just too much for me," she finished.

Gwen looked down at the floor, ashamed of her feelings. Morgana hadn't moved throughout the conversation, but seeing her assistant look so upset, she took Gwen's hands in hers.

"Go home, Gwen."

"I…what?" Gwen stared at Morgana, waiting for her to start on another outlandish plan where they snuck inside a pastry school and see how the machines worked.

"Go home. Wait for your husband. Drink a glass of wine. Watch some trashy TV. I'll be finished by the deadline," she said cheerfully, ushering Gwen out of the ICU.

"The entire thing? How will you finish the whole thing by the end of the week?"

"Because you did your job the way you said you would," she said, as they walked into the cold, night air. "You made me want to kill Arthur the right way."

In the process of figuring out how he could negotiate his body to kiss Merlin at a less awkward angle, Arthur felt something vibrate gently against his leg. He raised an eyebrow.

"My phone," Merlin said. With a pout on his face, Merlin detached himself from Arthur and moved to the other end of the counter. Arthur kept kneading, but wanted to know who had interrupted the best moment of his week.

"Hello?" Merlin answered. "Hi, Mum...of course I'm not at work...Business is pretty good, but if food costs keep going up, I'm not sure if we can handle it...Mom, can I call you back, I'm...What makes you think I'm with Arthur?" he said.

Arthur froze on the spot. Not only had Merlin called him by his first name, but Merlin's mother knew who he was and thought that they were spending time together.

"Well he does own half the store, Mum."

Did he? Arthur hadn't been to work in days and his father would no doubt disapprove, but for once in his life the concerns of Uther Pendragon meant nothing to him.

"No, Mum, I'm not going to bribe him with lemon chiffon cake," he whined.

Arthur wondered what it would be like to have a mom fuss over him. Though he also wondered about this chiffon cake that was delicious enough to be used as a bribe.

"I'll call you back first thing tomorrow, okay? I'm making mocha caramels and you know how I get when my candy overheats...I love you too. Bye," he said, putting the phone back in his apron.

Arthur knew this was now or never. He wouldn't get this opportunity again. He could either wash his hands and never see Merlin again or he could say everything he felt and hope it was enough.

"Merlin, I want you."

"What?"

"I want you. I haven't gone to work since the day we met, a bulldozer ran into my house, and I feel like life is trying to kill me, but all I want to do is stand her and help you bake," he admitted.

Merlin took a step toward Arthur, wary, but intrigued.

"A bulldozer ran into your house? You sure you're not just trying to find a warm bed to sleep in?"

"You want me in your bed?"

"Isn't there some clear rule about the office executives fraternizing with commoners, or whatever you call us poor thieves?"

"My father makes extremely strict rules about these things, but he's probably fired me by now and if he hasn't, I really don't care,"

"Why?"

"Because you invite the homeless man outside and give him tea to keep warm. Because you know your customer's first names and because you told your mom about that there's a spoiled, rich boy named Arthur Pendragon who stalks your shop at all hours of the night. I don't care if that sounds girly or stupid because I know what I want and I'm not scared to admit it."

Arthur stepped right back into Merlin's space, no pretenses.

"You still think you can have the world on a string? That if you say you want me, I'll just fall into your arms?" Merlin moved a step closer, his hands resting on Arthur's biceps.

"Oh, shut up, Merlin."

Arthur crossed the space in two strides to kiss Merlin full on the mouth, one hand in his hair and the other on his back. He pushed Merlin up onto the countertop, gripping his thighs and Merlin matched him, fingers cupping the back of his head, tongue pushing into Arthur's mouth with urgency. Arthur pulled away before he laid Merlin out on a table and ripped off his clothes.

"What's wrong?" Merlin asked breathlessly.

"I never washed my hands," Arthur lied. "There's dough in your hair."

"I guess you'll have to help me wash it out," Merlin said playfully.

"I guess I will."


	3. Part III

"Morgana, I don't understand why we're doing this, especially late at night. Some of us like to sleep, you know," Gwen said in frustration.

Morgana pointedly ignored her so as not to break her concentration. She stared at the gurney supporting a man who couldn't have been a day over twenty-five and looked like he had been fatally wounded. A swarm of nurses and doctors buzzed around him, hoping that he would stabilize, but knowing it was unlikely.

"Sir? Sir, I need you to keep breathing for me, please," one of the nurses said. As a doctor approached, she told him, "We have a twenty-one year old, black male caught in the crossfire of a gang fight. He has GSW's to the leg and abdomen. Stable, but in critical condition."

"Get him to OR #3. I'll get find Wilson," the doctor instructed. The team rounded the corner to the operating room, leaving Gwen and Morgana staring sadly.

"There you go," Gwen said. "Could you Arthur shoot in a gang fight?"

"Arthur's not in a gang, Gwen. Be reasonable," Morgana countered. They had been standing against the wall for an hour and a half, guessing how people in the Intensive Care had come to be there as inspiration for Morgana's death scene. Gwen had offered to go with her and make sure that Morgana didn't irritate the hell out of every nurse on call.

"What about him over there?" Gwen proposed, nodding in the direction of an old man in a dark brown, tweed jacket, who had turned to stare at the both of them. His hair had left him and he needed a cane to walk, but his eyes focused intently on one of the nurses behind the desk, until she got up to see if he needed assistance. Instantly, his face lit up up and he rattled off limb after limb that was giving him trouble.

"No," Morgana assessed. "He's not a patient, he just wants that nurse to cater to his every whim,"

"Sounds like someone I know,"

"You know what? This isn't helping. These people aren't dead yet,"

"Excuse me?"

But Morgana had already headed for the nurses' station.

"Where are the dying people?"

The nurse, a middle-aged black woman in light blue scrubs, looked at Morgana as though she had just asked how to find the doorway to Narnia.

"What did you just say?"

"Look, I'm doing some research and I need to see the dying people. You know, the ones who aren't going to make it," she stated.

"I'm sorry, is this some kind of clinical trial or something?"

"No, I writing a novel and - "

"GWEN!" a man yelled from down the hall. Morgana barely gave him a glance, but looked more thoroughly when she saw the two embracing. The man stood at least six inches taller than Gwen with a well-trimmed beard around the length of his face. He had a gorgeous, full head of hair, but what stood out most to Morgana were his eyes. This man had burning intense eyes that were only for Gwen. Cautiously, Morgana moved in closer to take in the conversation.

"Honey, what's wrong? Are you okay?" he said, checking Gwen over for injuries.

"I'm fine, Lance. I'm here with my boss so that she can stare at dead people,"

"Your boss is here? That evil woman makes you work crazy hours, sit out in the freezing rain, and _stare at people while they're dying_?"

"You work crazy hours too, you know," she said, eager to change the subject. "Hey, isn't this supposed to be your night off?"

"Yes it is, but someone didn't answer her phone when I told her that my patient got the heart," he said,

"Lance that's…that's wonderful," Gwen said both excited and a bit lethargic.

"Gwen – " Lance began.

"I know," she said, as though she already knew that Lance would say to her. "But transplant surgery is hard for to wrap my head around."

"It's hard for all of us, but it's what we have to do."

A pager at Lance's side beeped frantically so he kissed Gwen goodbye and passed through a set of double doors before disappearing completely. Gwen lingered a moment on the spot where Lance left her, but eventually found Morgana once again.

"You're married?" Morgana demanded. She had seen it in the way they looked at each other and didn't like it one bit. This man, this surgeon, had gotten Gwen's attention and in less the two had been utterly consumed in one another. When he talked, she gave him her undivided attention. Morgana desperately wanted Gwen to look at her that way.

"I…yes," Gwen said, toying with the ring on her left hand.

"You never said you had a husband,"

"You never asked," she retorted. Then, more softly, "I wear this ring every day. I don't know how you missed it."

Morgana couldn't believe how much she had missed between them. So much of her energy had gone into the process of writing a novel that she hadn't realized – and honestly hadn't cared – how much she had put Gwen through. She had considered Gwen more than just an assistant, more than just a friend too. Gwen was _hers_ and she hated sharing her with anyone, even a spouse.

"So he's a surgeon?" she asked sourly.

"Yes, Leon – my husband's name is Leon – is a pediatric surgeon. He's performing a heart transplant tonight on a ten year-old boy."

"From what I heard, you have a problem with that?" It was no doubt a question, one that even Gwen couldn't explain.

"One of the reasons that I married Lance is that he's so genuine. He does surgery on children and if he makes one mistake his patient dies, the muscle goes to waste, and he comes home distraught. But someone died tonight so that a complete stranger can live. I know the victim won't need the organ anymore, but thinking about dying kids is just too much for me," she finished.

Gwen looked down at the floor, ashamed of her feelings. Morgana hadn't moved throughout the conversation, but seeing her assistant look so upset, she took Gwen's hands in hers.

"Go home, Gwen."

"I…what?" Gwen stared at Morgana, waiting for her to start on another outlandish plan where they snuck inside a pastry school and see how the machines worked.

"Go home. Wait for your husband. Drink a glass of wine. Watch some trashy TV. I'll be finished by the deadline," she said cheerfully, ushering Gwen out of the ICU.

"The entire thing? How will you finish the whole thing by the end of the week?"

"Because you did your job the way you said you would," she said, as they walked into the cold, night air. "You made me want to kill Arthur."

In the process of figuring out how he could negotiate his body to kiss Merlin at a less awkward angle, Arthur felt something vibrate gently against his leg. He raised an eyebrow.

"My phone," Merlin said. With a pout on his face, Merlin detached himself from Arthur and moved to the other end of the counter. Arthur kept kneading, but wanted to know who had interrupted the best moment of his week.

"Hello?" Merlin answered. "Hi, Mum...of course I'm not at work...Business is pretty good, but if food costs keep going up, I'm not sure if we can handle it...Mom, can I call you back, I'm...What makes you think I'm with Arthur?" he said.

Arthur froze on the spot. Not only had Merlin called him by his first name, but Merlin's mother knew who he was and thought that they were spending time together.

"Well he does own half the store, Mum."

Did he? Arthur hadn't been to work in days and his father would no doubt disapprove, but for once in his life the concerns of Uther Pendragon meant nothing to him.

"No, Mum, I'm not going to bribe him with lemon chiffon cake," he whined.

Arthur wondered what it would be like to have a mom fuss over him. Though he also wondered about this chiffon cake that was delicious enough to be used as a bribe.

"I'll call you back first thing tomorrow, okay? I'm making mocha caramels and you know how I get when my candy overheats...I love you too. Bye," he said, putting the phone back in his apron.

Arthur knew this was now or never. He wouldn't get this opportunity again. He could either wash his hands and never see Merlin again or he could say everything he felt and hope it was enough.

"Merlin, I want you."

"What?"

"I want you. I haven't gone to work since the day we met, a bulldozer ran into my house, and I feel like life is trying to kill me, but all I want to do is stand her and help you bake," he admitted.

Merlin took a step toward Arthur, wary, but intrigued.

"A bulldozer ran into your house? You sure you're not just trying to find a warm bed to sleep in?"

"You want me in your bed?"

"Isn't there some clear rule about the office executives fraternizing with commoners, or whatever you call us poor thieves?"

"My father makes extremely strict rules about these things, but he's probably fired me by now and if he hasn't, I really don't care,"

""Why?"

"Because you invite the homeless man outside and give him tea to keep warm. Because you know your customer's first names and because you told your mom about that there's a spoiled, rich boy named Arthur Pendragon who stalks your shop at all hours of the night. I don't care if that sounds girly or stupid because I know what I want and I'm not scared to admit it."

Arthur stepped right back into Merlin's space, no pretenses.

"You still think you can have the world on a string? That if you say you want me, I'll just fall into your arms?" Merlin moved a step closer, his hands resting on Arthur's biceps.

"Oh, shut up, Merlin."

Arthur crossed the space in two strides to kiss Merlin full on the mouth, one hand in his hair and the other on his back. He pushed Merlin up onto the countertop, gripping his thighs and Merlin matched him, fingers cupping the back of his head, tongue pushing into Arthur's mouth with urgency. Arthur pulled away before he laid Merlin out on a table and ripped off his clothes.

"What's wrong?" Merlin asked breathlessly.

"I never washed my hands," Arthur lied. "There's dough in your hair."

"I'll guess you'll have to help me wash it out," Merlin said playfully.

"I guess I will."

_Arthur's life had been filled with moments, both significant and mundane. But those moments remained entirely indistinguishable, except for this. Arthur opened his eyes slowly to the sight of brown hair and the feel of a soft body next to him, he knew that he had made it to Merlin's apartment. Merlin let out a soft sigh and repositioned himself against Arthur, who was reliving what had happened when they left Balinor's._

_Merlin lived a few blocks away from his shop and the trip had taken them no time at all. Arthur remembered taking Merlin's obnoxiously large ear between his teeth for not getting the door open fast enough. He remembered the feeling of his hands sliding underneath his jeans to see what kind of sound he made. Most of all, Arthur remembered the look on Merlin's face when he shuddered beneath him, gasping Arthur's name and looking up at him in pure reverence. _

_Yes, this was one of his significant moments. Merlin was falling in love with him and Arthur realized he loved Merlin right back. As it did with most people, being in love changed Arthur. Over the next three days, Arthur the moved into Merlin's messy apartment, became the CFO of Balinor's Bakery, and stopped caring about how other people thought he should live his life. In this new phase of his life, he no longer ate alone. He no longer counted brushstrokes. And he most certainly didn't sleep alone._

_Though he did keep his wristwatch._

Mordred didn't move from his computer when Arthur walked in the door at precisely 8:45 on Friday morning. "Mr. Pendragon, right on time. Has anything else happened since the last time you saw me?"

Arthur thought about explaining everything, but got straight to the point. Mordred didn't need to know everything about his life to be of help.

"Listen, what does it mean when the main character falls in love with someone who they originally hated or looked down on?"

Mordred didn't seem happy about having his question ignored, but answered anyway.

"It means your story could go either be a comedy or a tragedy. Romeo fell in love with Juliet and they died at the end of the play. Elizabeth Bennett met Mr. Darcy and they lived happily ever after in the English countryside. You have to give me something more to go on."

"Mordred, I need you to help me out here; I don't have much time to play around with you. I'm not going to let myself fall in love with Merlin if I could be dead in five minutes."

"Merlin? The

"Exactly. That's every author's moral. Live life to the fullest because the moment you figure out what you're missing, it's all over. Now, I've made you a list of seven living, female authors whose prior work match your descriptions. If your narrator is alive, she's on that list. I hope you find her in time."

Arthur took the list from Mordred's hand, beyond exasperated. His eyes flew down a list of authors who he had never heard of when She started talking again.

"...well, I want to call the book _Death and Loans_, but my publishers tell me that title isn't exciting enough..."

Arthur had no idea why his author would tell him the title of his book given that she had never talked directly to him, only about him.

"_Death in Rome_? You know I've always loved Rome. Have you ever been to St. Peter's Basilica?" a different voice inquired.

"No, _loans. Death and Loans_. It's a book about interconnectivity. The shortness of life and the looming certainty of death. It's about love and family..."

Arthur stopped breathing. He moved one limb at a time to face the television on the other side of the room. The first thing he noticed about her was her gorgeous, black hair that, even in a high ponytail, fell to the middle of her back. Next he saw how strong she looked, even when trying to seem relaxed in front of the camera. But her voice cut him to pieces because this woman was his author.

"Mordred, who is she?"

"You mean Katie Couric?" Modred said, rising out of his chair.

"Not Katie fucking Couric. I meant, who is the woman getting interviewed and which one is she on the list?"

"Oh, Morgana LeFray?" Mordred's eyes filled with an emotion with something between arrogance and adoration. He looked inspired by this woman, as though she were his equal, where everyone else was a pawn.

"Morgana LeFray isn't on this list Mordred. Why isn't she on here?"

"Because she can't be your narrator, Mr. Pendragon. That interview is over ten years old,"

"I'm positive. I know her voice."

"She isn't on my list. It has to be someone else."

Arthur grabbed Mordred by the shoulders with lightning speed, their faces about a foot apart before clearly enunciating, "That woman is trying to kill me. Now who is she and where can I find her because I refuse to die now."

"Morgana LeFray?"

"How many different ways do you want me to say it? I have been living with her voice in my head for a month. I know who she is and what she sounds like. Now how can I get to her before she throws me out a window?"

"Arthur, I'm sorry," he said sincerely. If Mordred was calling him by his first name, things had to be terrible

"Why are you sorry? I just need to talk to her. She won't kill me if she understands that I'm real,"

"No, Arthur, that's her thing. It's her signature. Her main characters are usually people living mundane lives with no regard for the past, present, or future. She puts them through hell so that they see how meaningless their lives are, turns them into heroes, and then kills them in the most beautiful way possible."

Mordred had just slapped Arthur all the way back to the first stage of grief with those words. This wasn't happening to him. He had just started living and now she wanted him dead so that he could be a Pulitzer Prize on her shelf?  
>If nothing else, he was still a Pendragon.<p>

"Where can I find her?"

"She untraceable. I know. I teach a class on her and every time I want to invite her in as a guest speaker, I have no way of tracking her down."

Mordred strode over to his desk, checking the spines of the books piled there, before choosing a large, hardback with a dirtied beige exterior. He turned to the second page before coming back to Arthur.

"Look, this is her latest book, _Death and the Autumn Breeze._ She hasn't written anything in this millennium. You can't be hers."

"Random House. Is that the publisher?"

"Arthur - "

"Random House, 2257 Wallace Street," Arthur recited, wheels already turning. "That's seventeen blocks from here. Is she in the city? Can I find her?" he asked hopefully.

"Arthur, you're not listening. She doesn't - "

"No, you're right. I'm not listening. All I've done is listen to you Mordred. I don't want to listen. I want more time!"

"Even if you find her, what makes you think that - "

"Thank you for leading me to her, Mordred, but I have to go now,"

"Arthur, you don't understand. Arthur!"

But he was already out the door. Arthur left the university to and ran as fast as he possibly could to 2257 Wallace Street, pushing people out of his way, only to find that he needed a key card to get in the building. Arthur fished his cell phone our of his pocket and did something that he never thought he'd do again. He called his office. Leon answered on the second ring.

"Pendragon Industries, financial offices, how may I help you?" a gruff voice answered.

"Leon, it's Arthur,"

"Arthur, what the hell? No one's seen you in three days. You father's going ballistic,"

"Look, Leon, I can worry about him later. This is a life and death situation and I need you to help me, but you can't tell my father,"

Leon fell silent, weighing his options.

"What do you want?"

"I need the number for an author named Morgana LeFray, She's with Random House publishing. Can you look her up for me?"

"Arthur, what is this about? You trying to impress that guy you've been seeing by taking him to meet his favorite author?"

"Leon!"

"Fine, fine, Morgana LeFray...Morgana LeFray...I can't find anything on her, but she has an assistant named Guinevere Smith. Her number is 555-3426,"

"Thanks, I owe you one," Arthur said ending the call before starting a new one. With his head down, Arthur didn't see the frantic intern going into the old publisher's building carrying a tray of coffees. She ran directly into him, spilling coffee all over his clothing and rendering his phone useless.

"Sir, I'm so sorry. I was on my way to my first meeting and my boss just had to have -"

Arthur didn't have time to be angry or frustrated with a girl who he could tell was not cut out for corporate business. Instead, he started running again, this time for a subway station that he knew would have a pay phone.

Morgana LeFray had truly outdone herself this time. All it took was a little cheerleading from Gwen, eight packs of cigarettes, and one trip to the bookstore to outline how to kill Arthur Pendragon.

She walked into the office, outline in hand, to find Gwen placing index cards on the floor so that Morgana could use them as a visual aid and organize her thoughts. She walked over to the door with that infectious smile, when she saw Morgana come through the door.

"Where'd you go?"

"I went out to buy cigarettes and I found the catalyst for how I'm going to kill Arthur."

"How did you figure it out?"

"It was something you said when we went to the ER, but like all great literary moments, it came unexpectedly and without warning. I don't know how I didn't see it before," she said.

"What happens to him?" Gwen inquired,

"It's simple, ironic, possibly heart-breaking..." Morgana tailed off, in a world of her own. She stroked the yellow pages of legal pad, cradled in her arm the way a expert violinist would stroke his instrument.

"Is that it?"

"Yes,"

"You wrote it on legal sheets?"

"On the curb outside of the 7-Eleven where I bought my Newports,"

"Well, I guess...I mean, I suppose that you don't need me anymore," Gwen stammered, fidgeting with her shirt sleeve, the way she always did when she felt nervous.

Gwen had revived her office that had been dead for over a decade. She had gone to great lengths to ensure Morgana's creativity, from sitting in the rain to stalking the morgue. Morgana wanted to tell Gwen that she would always need her to be complete.

"I appreciate your help Gwen. I know I've been a royal bitch sometimes, but I couldn't have done this without you."

"Thank you. I'll pack my things and call the publishers so they know when to expect your manuscript," Gwen said. Her voice held and her posture remained stiff, but her on her way to the other room, Morgana thought she heard Gwen sniff on the way back to her side of the office.

Heaving a sigh, Morgana sat down behind her laptop, ready to end more than one life.

_Arthur Pendragon ran to the twenty-third street tunnel, where he knew there would be at least three pay phones by the exit. Luckily a train had just left the station, so he had few people in the tunnel with him and none that he heeded to elbow out of the way._

_He rounded the corner, the three phones now in his sight. He was breathing heavily, his shirt clung to his back, and his feet hurt from running so far on concrete, but he persisted to the end of the corridor. The first phone failed to give a dial tone and the second was covered in what looked like a fresh layer of mucus...or something worse. _

_Arthur dialed the third phone, fervently making sure to give each number a specific, forceful punch. The phone rang once._

Morgana looked up as Gwen's cell phone vibrated on the table. She thought it an odd coincidence that Gwen would be so careless, but kept typing.

_The phone rang again._

This time, Morgana knew that something was deeply, deeply wrong for the phone on the table across from her desk rang a second time, even though it hadn't rung until after she'd finished typing.

"Sorry about that," Gwen said, entering the room. "I didn't mean to - "

"NO!" Morgana shouted, half out of her chair. "No, you leave that phone right where it is. Do you understand?"

Gwen nodded, Morgana's idiosyncrasies second nature to her by now. Morgana didn't have time to feel guilty or apologize just yet. The phone had stayed silent during their exchange, where others would have kept ringing regardless. She eased herself back down into her seat, eyes focused across the room.

_The phone rang a third time._

Morgana darted across the room, scrambling to pick up the phone and nearly dropping it before opening the damn things and saying, "Hello?"

"Is this Guinevere Smith, Morgana LeFray's assistant?" a man asked, sounding strangely relieved.

"No, no, this is Morgana herself. May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is Arthur Pendragon. I believe you're trying to kill me."'

Morgana didn't know what to say. Was this someone's idea of a publicity stunt? But the only ones who knew anything about the book were her and Gwen, and Gwen was under contract not to reveal any information about the novel until it was in stores.

"Is...is this a joke?" she said in disbelief.

"No, I work for my father, Uther, at Pendragon Industries, but I'm falling in love with a Scottish baker, Merlin? I used to type on my computer and it sounded like keys on a table. Ms. LeFray, it's me. I'm Arthur."

She dropped the phone in shock, but Gwen caught if fast enough to invite Arthur to the office.

The meeting hadn't gone smoothly at all. There was a lot of yelling about how sometimes people had to die and even more yelling about why nosy authors had to budge their way into someone's life so that they could play God. They went back and forth over whether Arthur should live or die, now that Morgana could see that he was a real person, not just words on a page. Morgana waxed poetic about proper literary technique and what it meant to be a well-respected novelist who fails to live up to her full potential.

It all ended with Gwen saying, "Let him read it."

The two of them almost argued over that too, but Gwen made it simple. She took the pages from the desk and placed them in Arthur's hands.

"Arthur, I know Morgana and I know this book. It's a masterpiece," Gwen lied.

"This book is the most important piece of literature in her already stunning career. I know how hard this is for you to hear and I know that you're falling in love, but I have a feeling that when you die - no matter how far off that day may be - your death will not be nearly as meaningful as or as heartbreaking as it will be right now,"

"You're asking me to knowingly face my death?" he said painfully,

"No, I'm asking you to be a hero. I'm asking you to save this book."

Arthur had spent the past week thinking that he was going to die as a pawn in someone's story, after reading the outline of his death, he saw now that Gwen and Mordred had been right. Morgana had made Arthur go from a businessman with an inferiority complex to a hero. He couldn't give that up just because he had to die at the end. If he were truly honest with himself, that was how all stories ended.

That night he went home and called Gwen's phone again what he decided. He said nothing to Merlin about the death, only shagged him senseless on every surface he could find. It wasn't an "I love you," but it was as close as he would get.

_Sandra, newly-employed, woke early on the morning of Arthur's death. She wanted to be just a little early for her new job as a bus driver for the local transit authority. She punched in her time card at work, happy at the feeling of being at work again. She wanted to be a productive member of society, and missed driving public buses. She checked herself once more in the rear-view mirror before pulling out of the bus terminal._

_Max, the twelve-year old boy, woke up late for school because he had stayed up playing video games well into the morning. He rushed to brush his teeth, eat a little breakfast, and wave goodbye to his parents before riding his bike to school._

_But Arthur woke up the same time he always did. He ran a hand lightly down Merlin's bare back, still not used to waking up with a body next to him. Much had changed for Arthur in the past few days and he needed to do one last thing to mark the true start to a new life. He needed to quit his job at Pendragon Industries. For the last time, Arthur put on an Armani suit, he tied his tie in a single Windsor knot, and he ran at a rate of nearly fifty-seven steps per six blocks to catch the bus to work. _

_However, what Arthur had not realized about the Wednesday one week prior was that when he had asked for the time, the Polish woman had given him a time that was three minutes fast and made him arrive to the bus stop full three minutes early. For most people, this would not have been an egregious error. In fact, it may have even made them slightly more punctual, but if Arthur had set his watch to the actual time, he would not have been there to see Max pedaling much too fast on his way to school, nor would he have seen Sandra arrived at his stop with so much excitement. Both of these things could have been unremarkable as well, if Max had not lost control of the bicycle and fallen into the street._

Arthur knew what he had to do as soon as he felt a handlebar hit him from behind. He watched as a small boy fell face-first onto the pavement. Instinctively, he lunged forward, picking the boy up under his arms and throwing him into the sea of people waiting for the bus. He put his hands in front of him to cover his face just as the bus arrived at the stop.

_ Arthur fell a few feet backward, his eyes bulging, limbs contorted under his body. Sandra stepped out of her bus, crying hysterically. She couldn't get fired from her job for killing someone on her very first day. Max had been a little shaken, but was otherwise unharmed. The last things Arthur heard before he lost consciousness was the sound of a woman crying and the boy he rescued saying, "It's all my fault..."_

Morgana willed herself to keep typing. Arthur had come to terms with his death. He had told her that he accepted her decision and that if she wanted him to die saving the life of a boy, he would be glad to do it. She lit her third cigarette of the morning, her hands shaking so badly that she couldn't get the lighter to spark. Morgana threw down the lighter on the floor and let out a cry of frustration. Gwen came out of her office to stand beside her, looking equally distraught.

"I have to kill him, Gwen. I need to. When we were in the ICU and said that someone had to die for your husband's patient to live, I thought it would be the same with Arthur. He has to die so that Max can live, but I can't type it. I can't - "

"I know," she soothed.

"Why did you make him agree to this? Yesterday, when he came here, why did you lie and say you read my outline when I didn't show it to you?"

"Because the only lie was that I hadn't read it. I think that everything you write is a masterpiece,"

"Even if I let him live?"

Gwen looked at her incredulously. She sat on top of Morgana's desk, against her usual code of formality.

"You've never let anyone live before."

"I know, but all of those people needed to die. Arthur, on the other hand, he knows. He knows I'm killing him, knows that I could stop it, and he's welcoming death with open arms. Isn't that the type of man who deserves to live?"

"I think that's brilliant, but what if the publishers hate it?"

"As long as you love it, I'll take my chances," she said, giving Gwen a look that she only reserved for her most precious literary pieces.

Arthur woke up in a hospital bed, with a man in a lab coat by his side. All of his limbs had been placed into casts and it took him a while to remember who he was or why he was here.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Pendragon," the doctor said. His had an angular face, even more so than Merlin's, but with sharp eyes that held no shred of softness. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

"I was at he bus stop and I pulled a boy out of the way. He was about to get hit. I guess I got hit instead,"

"Yup, what you did was brave, Mr. Pendragon. Kind of stupid, but pretty brave."

"Is the boy okay?"

"Who, Max? He's fine, just a little scratched up,"

"Can I ask you how I'm still alive, Doctor?"

"From what I've seen, you cracked your head, broke three bones in your leg and foot, have four broken ribs, fractured your left arm, and severed an artery in your right, which should have killed you in a matter of minutes. Amazingly, when you held up your hand to protect yourself, a piece of your watch broke off and obstructed the artery long enough to keep you alive."

"Wow, so, my wristwatch saved my life?"

"Something like that. With some physical therapy and a few months rest, you should be fine...mostly,"

"Excuse me?"

"We weren't able to remove the watch without risking severe arterial damage, so you will always have a piece of watch embedded in your arm for the rest of your life. You're very lucky to be alive,"

Arthur relaxed back on in the hospital bed, just as Merlin bursting through the door with an enormous bag hoisted over his shoulder and a terrified expression on his face. He frantically searched for a safe place to touch Arthur and settled on his forehead.

"Arthur, what happened to you,"

"There was boy in the road today. I stopped him from getting hit by a bus," he whispered.

"What have I told you about looking both ways before you cross the street, Pratdragon?" Merlin's jibe was softened by taking Arthur's fingers into his hand.

They both laughed, relieved that everyone was still intact and that their time together hadn't ended after seven days.

"I guess that if you saved a kid's life, that makes you entitled to a few Bavarian sugar cookies."

Arthur had been prepared for death this morning, but instead he had received Bavarian sugar cookies, the touch of Merlin's hands, and the reassurance that even if he wasn't a masterpiece, his book still made a damn good story. Only his novelist could say, "A wristwatch saved Arthur Pendragon."


End file.
